


Concurring With Hemingway

by Vae



Category: Lucifer Box - Mark Gatiss
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tag to The Vesuvius Club of an extremely smutty nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concurring With Hemingway

I would not, as a general rule, take Hemingway's opinion on anything as being worth considering for the slightest moment. However, I was forced to concede that he was correct upon one matter: that having one's life threatened had the net result of making one most wonderfully aroused.

Charlie was displaying a distinctly pleasing lack of squeamishness regarding the corpse cooling across the room, and an even more distinctly pleasing attention to my state of arousal. I was, after all, still an invalid, my energy levels most distressingly low, and it was therefore only reasonable to expect him to take on the greater part of exertion, leaving your humble narrator the deserving part of, as the saying is, lying back and thinking of England.

I must confess that my thoughts were very far from England as Charlie retrieved the pot of oil from my bedside table (I never travel without it; lack of linseed oil has been the sad demise of many of my formerly favourite brushes) and dipped his fingers in, retrieving them slick and gleaming in the golden lamplight of the Hotel Napoli. Indeed, my thoughts were much closer, marking the beauty of his face as those fingers slipped inside him, the infinite darkness of his pupils narrowing the rich blue surrounding them as the first slender finger breached his body, the wide, bitten lips parting when the second joined its fellow.

"Charlie," I murmured, resting a hand on his thigh, feeling muscle flex under my palm, the growing tension quivering through his body.

My only answer was a quirk of those lips into something like a smile and then, oh lord, the delicious envelopment of his magnificent arse closing around my cock, the voluptuous delight pressing down onto me. Such abandonment to the moment I could truly only admire, embrace, and indeed emulate, digging my nails into his skin to bring those eyes open again and to my face. (I prefer those whom I fuck to be aware of precisely by whom they are being fucked; a personal affectation, I know, but I flatter myself an attractive one.)

"Oh, Christ, Mr. Box," he groaned, working his body down upon mine in a way he clearly appreciated. One of those calloused hands by which I was so entranced strayed towards his own straining member, and I slapped it away sharply.

Only, of course, to replace it with my own. I am not a cruel man, despite my carefully cultivated reputation. "I think," I told him softly, squeezing lightly before stroking my hand over him, "that under the circumstances, you might use my Christian name."

Although I would hesitate to call myself a Christian, my namesake was, after all, an angel, and what could possibly be more Christian than that?

"L...Lucifer!" he breathed with all due reverence and clenched greedily around me as he spent, dragging me with him into the brief and blissful oblivion of le petit mort.


End file.
